


The Apprentice

by OmgReally



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Blow Jobs, Din Djarin Deserves Better, F/M, Fingering, Loaded banter, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Older Man/Younger Woman, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Second Person, Possessive Din Djarin, Power Imbalance, Quickies, Rough Oral Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Frustration, Sexual Tension, Size Difference, Size Kink, Soft Din Djarin, Topping from the Bottom, Touch-Starved Din Djarin, season 2 canon divergent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:01:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29610498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OmgReally/pseuds/OmgReally
Summary: Peli Motto took you off the streets of Tatooine to become one of the best apprentices she's ever had - but honestly, the DUM droids are setting the bar pretty low.Still, you work out well for the first few months until an armored Mandalorian stranger lands with a busted-up ship and a strange magic baby and, well, you're intrigued. Even though you know you shouldn't be. Peli's always teling you to keep away from anything hot but sometimes, to fix something, you have to stick your hand straight into the fire.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Original Female Character(s), Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You, The Mandalorian/You
Comments: 68
Kudos: 396





	1. The Arrival

“Hey, Peli! We got some hunk o’ junk requesting to land. Want me to tell him where to shove his rusty old comm signal?”

The older woman cranes over your shoulder as you swivel in the rickety chair in front of the array of control and communication panels. You’ve been working at Hangar Three-Five for a few months now, and you know it takes all sorts of ‘customers’ to keep a place like this running - but honestly. You’re surprised the wreck requesting the bay can even _fly_.

You’re even _more_ surprised when Peli takes one look at the screen and shoves you out of the chair, hastily pressing the transmit button.

“Clearin’ you to land, Razor Crest,” she says hurriedly. “Sorry for the delay.” She takes her hand off the button and straightens to glare at you. “ _Never_ assume like that again, Girl,” she says, using your least favourite nickname for you. “That hunk o’ junk just might be my favorite customer.”

You gape at her as you brush off your coveralls. “You serious, Peli? I mean - are you sure, ma’am? I couldn’t even see a transponder code from that...vessel.” You choose your words a bit more carefully now, reminded that while Peli has a heart of gold, she has the temper of a Tusken.

“I’ve been workin’ in this hangar since you were a babe sucklin’ at your momma, Girl,” Peli says, pointing a wrench at you. “You’d do well to listen to me more’n you do.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” you sigh, looking down at the ground. 

“Now, go on to the market, why don’tcha, and pick us up somethin’ for dinner. You may have a head thick as bantha hide, Girl, but at least you’re better at negotiating than the Dums.” You wince. You know you’re just an apprentice, but _damn_ if it doesn’t sting whenever Peli compares you to the droids.

It’s not that you don’t like them. They just...creep you out a little. Soulless little machines, scuttling around as if they’re alive when they’re just - not. Whoever invented droids was one sick carosi pup.

Peli hands you a pouch of credits - the amount of which is dwindling daily. You wonder if the engineer’s eagerness to house this beaten-up old scupper doesn’t have something to do with their lack of funds. You consider offering to forego your wages until things are better - Peli has shown you incredible kindness, taking you in off the street when your next best bet was working as a dancing girl in one of Mos Eisley’s less reputable cantinas. Who knew where you woul’dve ended up after that. You prefer this, even though ti’s hard, physical work, and you’re often up to your elbows in engine grease and covered head to toe in grime and oil

Who knew starships were so _dirty_.They make sense, though, and you quickly proved that you had an aptitude for it. For pulling things apart and putting them back together again, but working. You’ve fixed busted motivators and blown capacitors that even left Peli scratching her head. You suppose that, rather than sentimentality, is why she keeps you around.

Either way, your life is pretty comfortable, now. Boring, but comfortable. You hope the credits situation isn’t going to change that.

How little you know.

\---

You wander through the market, credits pouch too light in your pocket as you peruse the food stalls. You _really_ don’t feel like dried krayt jerky a hundredth night in a row, so you’re glad Peli sent you out, but you are struggling to find something that is a) appealing and perhaps more importantly, b) affordable.

You end up in a heated argument - no, _discussion_ \- with a Toydarian over some deep-fried gorg before you give up, your temper and your impatience too piqued to settle on a decent price. You calm yourself with a trip past a stall selling all manner of imported cloth and fabrics: beautiful, delicate things, things you are not. A scarf made of deep blue silk that shimmers iridescent in the harsh sunlight catches your eye. You pause, running your fingers over it, your dirty, chipped nails a contrast to the smooth, satiny surface. 

“It would suit you, pretty girl,” says a deep, male voice. You look up into the eyes of the stallholder. He’s a surprisingly handsome man, tall, with dark skin and hair and muscles bulging from a vest that seems tactically selected to show off as much of his bare chest as possible. For someone selling fabric, he’s certainly not wearing a lot of it.

“Sorry,” you say, taking your hand back. “I haven’t got enough credits for something like that.” The ‘pretty girl’ rankled you. You’re aware, tangentially, that underneath the layers of grease and oil you have features that some might consider comely, even _attractive_ , and your body was good enough to catch the attention of some of the seedier businessmen when you were on the street. But it is the assumption itself that you are nothing more than your face and your body that bothers you. 

“Suit yourself, gorgeous,” he calls after you as you walk away, back towards the smell of roasting meat. “I’ll be here if you change your mind!”

You grab a few deep-fried gorg from the Toydarian after all, a bottle of blue milk, and head back to the hangar in a thoughtful mood.

\---

The ship has already landed by the time you get back.

It looks like it’s falling apart at the seams. In fact, you can spot several missing panels from the ground. Up close, you’re even more astonished that it managed to fly.

The ramp is stuck half-down, and you stand on your tiptoes to peer inside. It doesn’t look much better in there than on the outside. Dingy durasteel, crates all over the place, pathetic excuse for a hold, really. How can _this_ be Peli’s ‘favourite customer’? It looks like it needs a complete teardown. Not even a rebuild, just...tear it down. It’s not even worthy to be a garbage hauler, it’s only suitable to _be_ the garbage getting hauled. It-

“Like what you see?” 

You almost drop the bags of food and produce and manage to avoid most of it flying everywhere, save for a single pale blue pika fruit that escapes and rolls across the ground to land against the stranger’s boot. You scuttle forward to grab it, and your hand is intercepted by a gloved one, yellow fingers closing around the fruit and lifting it from your view.

You straighten and look up, up, _up_ into the Beskar helm of a Mandalorian.

“Oh,” you say in a very small voice. Now you understand.

You’ve heard and seen tales of Mandalorians - quite a legendary one lived here for a time, not that long ago - and some of those tales were from Peli herself. She’d never mentioned that she _knew_ one, though. 

This one is about the same as you imagine a Mandalorian to be. Armored from head to toe, no part of him visible, his eyes shielded by the inscrutable blackness of the T-shaped visor in his helm. 

He can probably see everything, though, from your heartbeat down to the anxious flush in your skin as he steps toward you and says “Here.” He slips the pika fruit back into your bag and you nod, swallowing the sudden lump in your throat.

“Thanks.”

You stand there awkwardly for a moment while he just _stares_ at you, as if he’s a droid himself, scanning you up and down through that damn visor. You clear your throat and cock your hip, placing your hand on it and raising your eyebrows.

“Is this your ship”?” You tap your knuckles against the hull behind you, miraculously not making another panel or part fall off. “What did you do to it?

“What?” His stance changes a little; he stands up a little straighter, his shoulders set, his hands hanging down by his sides with a little more purpose than before. Posturing, you think, that’s all it is, although you’re now a little nervous as you answer.

Because he is _broad_. Broad and well-built, if the fit of the armor is anything to go by. He could crush your head like a pika fruit without even trying.

Still, it has to be said, for a ship like that...“It looks like it’s about to fall apart,” you say, trying for diplomatic, but by tempering your vehemence it just sounds like you’re complaining. 

The Mandalorian shrugs. “That’s why I brought it here.”

“Well, Peli _is_ the best mechanic on Mos Eisley,” you capitulate, and you relax a little, enough to walk past him towards the control room. “I’m just surprised she’s not so picky with her clientele.”

“From what I hear, she can’t afford to be.” _That_ stops you in your tracks. The Mandalorian has followed you, of course, and he’s right behind you as you enter the building and head to the kitchenette to put away dinner. 

“You shouldn’t listen to everything you hear, Mandalorian,” you say as you unpack the bag of measly meat, fruit and vegetables you managed to get. It goes all in the cooler for a later barbeque. That is one of the things you enjoy most about being here - sitting with Peli in front of a makeshift campfire, cooking and talking. Not about anything in particular, just...talking.

“Well, if I’m wrong, I can just take my ships and my credits elsewhere,” the Mandalorian says with a shrug. It’s then you notice that he has a pouch he’s holding up, and it hangs heavy and clinks promisingly when it moves. You lick your lips nervously, hoping you’re not about to fuck up some big deal Peli has struck with this bounty hunter warrior.

Hoping you’re not about to be _shot_ by this bounty hunter warrior.

“For example, I know the upkeep costs around here have risen recently,” he says, letting the pouch sway back and forth, and your eyes follow it like hypnosis. “Thanks to Peli taking on an apprentice…”

You sigh. “How much?”

“Five thousand.”

You do some quick maths in your head. “Might not cover any major components that need replacing, but it’s a start. You’ll have a vacuum seal again at least.”

“Good.” The Mandalorian tosses you the pouch and you catch it with both hands. It feels heavier than five thousand, but you’ll give it to Peli first. Speaking of - where the hell _is_ Peli?

“There, how does that feel? Look at you, who’s a handsome li’l womp rat? You are!” 

You have _never_ heard Peli talk to anyone like _that_. You and the Mandalorian follow the sound of her voice out into the control room, and you find her cradling what looks like a small, wrinkled green baby, a creature with the face of a frog and ears of a bat, slightly damp and wrapped in what looks like-

“Is that - my shirt?” you ask, horrified. The creature blinks and coos at you.

“Had to give Grogu here a bath and I didn’t have any clean towels. So I borrowed your shirt. Look how cute he looks in it!” Peli tries to hand you the creature but you step out of the way. This is _not_ how you saw your day going.

“Look, the Mandalorian here wants us to fix his ship,” you say. “He’s giving us five thousand.” You set the pouch down on the control panel. “I’m pretty sure it can be done, but if there are any busted capacitors or modulators that need fixing, that bill’s gonna go way up.”

“It’ll do,” Peli nods. “Meantime, I’ll look after this little guy. You even give him a bath last time I saw you? Don’t answer that, Mando.” Mando. So that’s what they call him. He doesn’t even have a name, just a shortening of his title.

“Guess I’ll get to work on the ship,” you grumble, rolling your eyes as you head back out into the hot Tattooine suns. 

Boring but comfortable. _Yeah, right_.


	2. The Beholder

The Mandalorian is always watching you.

You’ll be working on something on his ship and feel it - like standing with your back too close to a fire. The heat of his gaze gathers between your shoulder blades, amplified by the blankness of that damned visor. 

He doesn’t give a flying kriff that you notice, either. You’ll glance over your shoulder at him and he’ll be there, lounging against something, effortlessly casual, and he’ll just look at you and shrug, as if daring you to say something.

You tell yourself that Mando is just protective of his ship. There’s a lot of surprisingly expensive hardware on it - the contents of that weapons locker, for example - and he doesn’t want you to fuck something up. After all, you _are_ the apprentice. Peli vouching for you doesn’t make a damn lick of difference. This floating metal trap is his home, and the first time you met you spent some time insulting it. It’s understandable he’d want to keep an eye on you after that.

And you tell yourself you don’t like it.

At first you try to ignore it. You work, and you work _hard_ because Peli expects nothing less. You end up with the arms of your coveralls tied around your hips, your tank damp with sweat and sticking to your skin, your hair an absolute mess, covered head to toe in engine grease. 

You descend the recently-repaired ramp wiping your forehead on your arm, and here he is, leaning against one of the landing struts. “What are you doing?” he asks, making you jump near-out of your skin; you whirl to glare at him, clutching at your pounding heart.

“Taking a break,” you say, when you’ve recovered enough to speak. “I’ve been working all day.”

He surveys you impassively. _Is_ there anything under that helmet, you wonder? Or is it just air and wires? Just like one of those droids. But no, the way he moves - all coiled, unreleased power, the potential for violence - you can _feel_ he’s more than that.

You’re not sure if it terrifies or intrigues you.

You tell yourself it’s fine, that it doesn't really bother you. That every time he appears behind you your heart doesn’t skip a beat. But the sheer physicality of his presence is full of a devastating uncertainty and potential that you don’t know what to do with.

And he’s always _watching you_.

He says nothing, and you turn and shake your head, stomping off away from the ship. _Razor Crest_ , it’s called. You think it should be called _Tetanus Crest._

“What’s his deal?” you ask Peli as you grab some water inside. Your boss still has that weird green baby, but she’s given back your shirt, although you’re not sure you’ll wear it ever again. The thing coos and surveys you with googly eyes that creep you out only _marginally_ less than Mando does.

“Whaddaya mean?” Peli’s only half-paying attention, too busy rocking the kid - Grogu - as she tries to get him to sleep in her arms. He waves his stubby claws, evidently enjoying himself too much to do so.

“He’s...very intense. Always watching me.”

“Well, he _is_ a Mandalorian. They’re not exactly a friendly people. I wouldn’t take it personally.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s personal, Peli,” you say, shaking your head, “Every time he looks at me, I’m not sure if he wants to shoot me or fuck me.” 

You expect Peli to tell you off for your mouth. She only covers Grogu’s ears and glances around to make sure Mando isn’t listening when she says, “Careful, Girl. It could be both.” She laughs as you blush, from cheeks to collarbones, and she wriggles her hairless brows at you suggestively. Then, her fun had, the mechanic shakes her frizzy head and sits back, her tone turning a little more to the serious.

“Don't worry yourself too much. I trust him. Mando won’t hurt you. If he did, he’d owe me even more credits'n he already does. But he’s...he’s a good man, kid. Grogu here is proof of that.” The stubby creature makes a happy burbling noise and claps his tiny hands together. You can’t help but smile a little.

“Plus, if he hurts you, he’ll be answerin' to _me_. And you can remind him of that, too.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t mind him hurting me in a _couple_ of ways,” you say breezily, if only to see the shocked look on Peli’s face. You walk away laughing. 

Well. Overall, that was...unhelpful. You grab a discarded rag and wipe sweat from your brow, probably only succeeding in smearing black grease all over your forehead. War paint, you think, not with a touch of irony.

You’ve had a few tumbles in the sand in your time. Nothing permanent, few even memorable. You even considered doing it for credits, when things started to get really bad, before Peli came along. But you’ve never been confident enough in yourself to just _go_ for what you want, and you waited until the boys or the men or the women came to you with hooded eyes and soft, promising touches and you went along to see where it led you. It’s been a while, and sometimes the urge strikes you to head down to the Cantina and find someone for a night, but you always end up alone in your bunk with your hand in your pants and your lips clamped shut so you don’t wake Peli as you work out your own frustrations.

You could be wrong. You hope you’re wrong, in this case. Fucking a regular customer, much less one who is a _Mandalorian_ , sounds like trouble. But it also sounds like a lot of kriffing fun.

The Mando in question is nowhere to be seen outside. You ascend the ramp slowly, cautiously. How a big, shiny, broad, tall, menacing Mandalorian can hide in a tiny little krill can like this is beyond you, but he manages it. He’s not in the cockpit when you ascend the ladder, but that’s fine - you’ve been working on the busted nav computer for the last couple of hours and it’s been impossible to concentrate with him breathing down your neck.

It’s been disassembled into a pile of wires and cables and circuitboards that make sense only to you. You sit in the pilot’s chair and pull it into your lap, humming to yourself as you tweak and twist things into place. You’re not sure how long you’re there for - long enough to rewire it into something that starts to make visual sense, long enough for your fingers and neck to cramp. Long enough to calm down after a _very_ weird day or two.

“You’re good with your hands,” says a smooth, filtered voice by your ear.

You jump and the circuitboard almost slips from your fingers - you catch it pinned between your knees at the last moment, half-twisting in the chair to glare up at the Mandalorian who stands eclipsing the hatchway, leaning a forearm against the bulkhead, helm tilted as he watches you. 

“How long have you been there for?” you ask, trying to keep your aggression levels down, but _damn_ it he startled the _fuck_ out of you and almost made you undo all the work you’ve been doing for the last - you check the nearest chrono - two hours? Have you really been up here that long? 

Outside the viewport, the suns are starting to set, and the fading orange-purple light paints the brushed durasteel interior in hues of silvery midnight, lit only by the standby lights. It would be peaceful, if not for the metal hulk boxing you in and making your heart beat twice as fast at his proximity.

“Not long.” Mando nods to the boards between your knees. “You fix it yet?”

You draw a small, calming breath, hoping he doesn’t notice. “The computer? Sure. The ship? You’re asking a bit much for a day. Got at least a week’s worth of work left to get this thing into shape.”

“Will it fly?”

You snort. “Yeah, it’ll fly. Might explode or crash at any moment, but it’ll fly.”

He makes a sound like a displeased grunt, but it’s hard to tell through the vocabulator. Then he stills, just looking at you, and you turn your back, discomfited as always. You resolve just to keep working as best you can, even as his gaze bores into you.

The board is ready to go back in - you slide off the chair and onto your knees, carefully setting aside the mass of circuitry. Then, grabbing the front of the panel, you swing yourself underneath it on your back. 

“Hey, uh - Mando? If you’re still there, can you hand me that board?” You hold your hand out from underneath the panel. Then you clear your throat and add, “Please.”

The wiring board is pressed into your palm, and you relax a little. You fit it into place - a lot easier now with the cables organized - and examine your handiwork for a moment. Then you run into a problem. 

Easing yourself out of the cramped space proves to be more difficult than getting in had been. You realize you’re stuck about halfway through trying to ease yourself out on your back, and you end up jammed between the bottom of the seat and the top of the panel.

“Fuck!”

“Need a hand?” Mando’s filtered, scratchy baritone sounds amused, or maybe that’s just your imagination. You can see the edge of his gloved fingers hovering within reach. The muscles in your neck and back are burning and your hip is aching - if you stay there any longer, twisted up like a pretzel, you’re going to pull something. So you take his hand.

He doesn’t just pull you up, though, no. He reaches down with his other hand and a strong, metal-encased arm circles you, and you’re maneuvered out from under the panel, onto your feet and straight into his arms in one smooth movement.

You splay your hands on an impossibly shiny, smooth expanse of Beskar, your breath held up in its journey on its way from your lungs. He seems to eclipse your entire horizon, an expanse of silver and black. 

This close, you can smell him, a mix of gun oil and cordite and oxygen that makes your mouth water. Everything _about_ him speaks to the part of you that craves danger, but there’s no little warning voice in your head telling you that this is wrong.

He is the one to let you go - to pull back, almost apologetically, placing his hands on your shoulders and stepping back to extend the distance between you. “You okay?” he asks, for all the world sounding unconcerned, but there is something knowing in the tilt of his helm when you look up into his visor.

 _Kriff,_ he is so much _bigger_ than you. You should find that terrifying. You should find this whole situation dangerous, alone with a strange, masked man in his ship where Peli wouldn’t be able to hear you scream if something went wrong.

But Peli trusts him, you tell yourself. And, evidently, he trusts Peli.

So where does that leave _you_?

“Nav computer should be fixed,” you say, and your voice is smaller than you would like. “Anything else you want, Mando?”

There is a moment that is far more heavily charged than it should be. Mando’s helmet inclines a little. His hands are heavy on your shoulders, and they slide slowly down, over your bare biceps, heedless of the buildup of sweat and grime as the leather drags roughly over your skin. It makes the hair on the back of your neck lift, a flush beginning somewhere in your chest and spreading outwards in both directions. 

“Passive sensor’s acting up,” he says then, and the tension in the pit of your stomach fades, replaced by frustration. “Could you take a look at it?”

You sigh heavily, trying to contain any obvious display of emotion. “Sure,” you say, managing a smile. Then you realize his hands are still on your arms, and you don’t know what to make of that. “Where is it?”

The helm nods towards below the pilot’s chair.

You groan. “I gotta go under there _again_? Damn it. Let me go get my tools.”

Unexpectedly, Mando volunteers. “Wait here. I’ll go get them.”

“But you don’t know which ones I’ll-” need. You call after him but he’s already down the ladder. Sighing, you plop back into the pilot’s seat.

Now you have to add _sexual frustration_ to your lists of complaints about this job. You never thought a fully-armored bounty hunter would do it for you - maybe it’s just been too long.

Shit, you’ve _got_ to make an effort not to be alone with him, you think. Because if he’s just being a Mandalorian and he doesn't mean anything by it, it’s going to be _embarrassing_ if you end up slipping up in front of him.

Soon he returns, a bag of your tools in hand, and surprisingly it looks like he’s found all the right ones. You nod appreciately, sliding off the seat and into the footwell again. 

“Mind giving me what I need while I’m down here?” you ask, and there’s a pause where Mando’s helmet shows absolutely nothing, and your face threatens to flush again. “The tools, I mean.”

“The tools,” he repeats, his voice flat, emotionless. “Right.”

 _Fuck_ , you think. _This is a bad idea_.

Nevertheless, you forge on. You’re not going to run screaming from the ship and tell Peli it’s because the _sexual tension_ \- probably imagined - is too much for you to bear. You’d be fired and back on the streets in a heartbeat. So, you’re going to try to remain _professional_.

You move forward on hands and knees underneath the panel, until only your ass is sticking out from underneath it. You try not to imagine the Mandalorian’s gaze on you _now_. You concentrate on opening the little access cover to the passive sensor array, reaching into your coveralls for a clip-on flashlight which you fix to the strap of your tank top. 

Yeah, it’s a mess in there, all right - corroded to hell with carbon scoring, probably from a glancing impact in a firefight. You don’t know why you find that thought exciting. You’ve repaired ships that have been in battle before, but - to be fair - none of them had been piloted by a _Mandalorian_.

“Hyperspanner,” you call, holding your hand out backwards. The smooth handle of the _correct_ tool, thankfully, is placed in your palm. “Thanks.” 

You forget the weird tension as you work, the immensity of the Mandalorian’s presence, your nervousness around him. You think only of what’s in your hands, the intricacies of electronics and wires and switches, the zen-like process of focusing on finding what’s wrong and fixing it. 

In this case, it’s mostly a cleaning job. You end up covered in black carbon soot, coughing as you scrape clouds of it from the affected components. None of them look damaged, though, which is a good sign. 

Eventually, you emerge, wriggling backwards hip-first until you can sit on your haunches with an elbow braced against the pilot’s seat. Half to your surprise, half-not, Mando is still there, though he’s taken up residence on the passenger seat instead, and he sits comfortably with an ankle crossed over his knee and his helm cocked at an angle to watch you work.

You flush as you realize he’d probably been watching your ass that entire time, even while handing you tools. Say what you like about them, a Mandalorian is definitely still a _man_. It’s right there in the name.

“Anything need replacing?” he asks, all business - but can you detect a warmer buzz in the modulation of his voice? Or is that just your imagination?

“Just my clothes,” you say, dragging up the bottom of your tank top to wipe your face. A little deliberate, since doing so reveals some of your stomach, but Mando’s only reaction is a small lift of his chin and a slight shifting in the chair. “Sensors should be fine now. And I’m gonna call it a night.”

He rises at the same time you do, and before you register what he’s doing, he’s in between you and the hatch, so large he covers entirely your only method of escape. You swallow the sudden lump in your throat, your hand tensing around the handle of your toolbox.

Peli trusts him, you tell yourself. He won’t hurt me.

“I wanted to...thank you,” he says and that is definitely _not_ what you’re expecting. You blink a couple of times and he continues. “I’ve been watching you, and you work hard. You might even be able to get the Crest flying in better shape than before.”

“Oh,” you say, unsure. “Well...What can I say? I like fixing things.”

He nods. You think then that he’s done, he’s going to move out of the way, when he speaks again. “What’s your name?”

You shrug. “Peli just calls me Girl.”

“You don’t have a name?” If you could see his face, you’re sure Mando would be rasing an eyebrow at you.

“Do you?” you fire back and that silences the helmet for a moment. Then it shakes from side to side slightly.

“Fair enough...Girl.”

“Fair enough, Mando,” you echo with something like a smile. He moves away from the hatch and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. As you move past him you stop and turn, seized by a sudden impulse.

“Hey, we’re having a barbecue tonight with some deep-fried gorg, leftover krayt jerky and pika fruit. D’you...d’you want to join us?”

He's silent for a moment, processing that. Not looking at you. Then: “I eat on the Crest. Alone,” he says pointedly. 

Peli had told you he never takes off the armor, on penalty of his Creed - whatever that is, it sounds sacred, and you don’t mess with anything that’s sacred. So you don’t take too much offense at the rebuff. Instead, you opt for a compromise.

“You don’t have to eat in front of us. Just come grab something and take it back with you. Or I could bring you something before I go to bed?”

The visor stares at you blankly for several long moments before inclining in a nod. “Okay,” he says. You’re not sure what he’s agreeing to, but at least he’s agreed to _something_. You find yourself oddly eager for his company, and try not to read into that too much as you smile and nod at him.

“Great! I’ll see you then, Mando.”

You sling the toolbox over your shoulder and descend the ladder, eager to get out of the Razor Crest and under a shower for at least fifteen minutes before dinner. 

Maybe then you can work off some of the weird tension before you have to see him again.


	3. Second Thoughts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this turned into a slower burn than I intended, but definitely not going to be as slow as my other fics, I promise! ~spice warning~

You sit on the ground across from the blazing fire as the Treadwell droids fries the gorgs on the flame generated by the old podracing engine. The suns have long since slipped below the horizon, and the night sky is filled with stars like a dark blanket poked with holes and thrown over a lamp. 

“You ever been offworld, Peli?” You wonder as you gaze upwards. You don’t think about it much, what’s up there - you’ve only ever been concerned with what’s down here and the more immediate need for survival. But the more time you spend on ships that soar back and forth between the stars, the more you wonder what it’s like.

“Space travel?” Peli snorts, ripping off a hunk of jerky for herself and handing a smaller piece to Grogu in her lap. “It’s a waste of time, kiddo. Keeps me in business, though, so I don’t complain. But the hotshots out there, zoomin’ around between planets, never feelin’ the dirt beneath their feet - they complain _plenty_. Makes me wonder why they do it.”

“What about him?” You nod towards the dark, silent Razor Crest. Mando hasn’t joined you yet, You’re beginning to doubt that he will.

“Who knows? Only thing he seems to care about is this little guy.” She jiggles Grogu on her knee.

“It’s...his child?” you ask slowly, almost afraid of the answer.

“Nah. Don’t think so, anyway. But he’s a part of his clan, so he’ll protect him, see? That’s how Mandalorians are.” She cocks her head. “I _think_. All I know is I’ve seen him kill without hesitation to protect this little one, and he’ll do anythin’ for him. _Anythin_ ’.” Peli emphasizes this with a pointed forefinger, one that Grogu grabs and starts to chew on. “Ow! Hungry little womprat, aren’tcha? Here, have some more o’ this.”

“That almost sounds...noble,” you muse aloud. Peli, only half-listening, chuckles.

“You try tellin’ him that. Hey, where are you goin’?”

“I told him I’d bring him some dinner,” you say as you get to your feet and fill a plate with meat, fruit and jerky.

“You like him, don’t you?”

You stop, half-turning to her in the flickering firelight. You expect to see a smirk, or a grimace, but Peli’s expression is just...curious. Grogu is looking at you too, and you wonder how much the little creature understands.

“He’s...interesting,” you say. “And attractive.” Why lie? Peli’s always been able to see straight through you.

The woman sighs, leaning back. “Just...be careful, Girl, won’t you? Believe it or not, I’ve gotten used to havin’ you around. And you’re a damn sight more useful than the droids.”

You shift from foot to foot. “What are you trying to say, ma’am?”

“I’m just sayin’...It’s like he’s got his own gravitational pull. Try not to fall into his orbit.” She strokes the ears of the child in her lap and presses her lips together into an expression of resignation when she meets your eyes. 

She already knows. And she can see it in you.

Her smile is wry, and a little sad when she adds, "You’ll end up burnin’ up.”

You’re not sure what to say to that, so you say nothing. You walk away, deep in thought, your steps taking you slowly, inexorably towards the ship. Maybe there’s something to what Peli’s saying. It’s like you just can’t help yourself.

It’s like you don’t even want to.

The side ramp is still down, and you wonder briefly if the actuator has broken again - you’ll have to check tomorrow. The sound of your boots on the gangway seem unnaturally loud, but you knock on the frame of the hatch anyway to announce your presence, peering into the dim interior.

“Mando?”

No answer. You make your way further into the hold, but catch no sight of him. “Mando?” you call again. 

This was a stupid idea, you decide. You’ll just leave the plate somewhere and go. You're in the middle of looking for an appropriate flat surface where he’ll find it when his voice drifts down from the cockpit - “Up here.”

There’s still time to just leave the food and go, you think. But of course, you don’t. You move further into the belly of the beast. Balancing the plate in one hand, you haul yourself up the ladder with the other. Somehow, you manage to get up to the cockpit without flinging food everywhere.

The bridge of the ship is even darker than before, the standby lights filling the space with an eerie, blinking glow. It makes the Mandalorian blend into the durasteel background, so that when he gets up from the pilot’s seat, you jump, nearly tripping backwards - but he’s on his feet and has caught the plate in one hand and your elbow in the other before you even register the movement.

“Sorry,” you mutter, staring into the visor. “I didn’t see you.”

“It’s okay,” he says, letting you go - you feel the absence of his touch more keenly than you might have if you'd gotten more time in the sanisteam earlier. You watch him as he perches on the edge of a control panel to examine the contents of his plate, gloved fingers picking through the jerky and crisped pieces of meat.

“It’s not much, but we were a little strapped for credits when I went to the market this morning,” you explain. “I’ll go out and get more tomorrow-”

“It’s fine. Thank you.” Still, he sets the plate aside, and you frown. If it’s fine, why isn’t he eating- Oh.

You turn, your face burning. “Sorry, I forgot. I’ll leave you to eat.” You step towards the hatch, and the ladder that leads to safety.

“Wait.”

The single word stops you in your tracks, and you stand there, frozen. You can’t hear him move, but you know that he’s behind you - you can feel the heat from his body and the coolness of the Beskar both warring for space at your back. You don’t turn around.

“Are you afraid of me?”

That’s definitely _not_ what you expected him to ask. If you expected anything. You do turn now, slowly, coming face-to-face with his breastplate mere inches from your nose, and you have to tilt your chin up to look up at his visor. At the edge of the helmet, you can see the fabric of his cowl disappearing upward, and you wonder what color his hair is under there - if he _has_ hair. It’s so hard to think of him as human, looking at the silver outer shell, and that more than anything else is terrifying. And exciting.

“Yes,” you say, your voice little more than a whisper. 

He reaches out and touches a tendril of your hair, still damp from the sanisteam. He brushes it gently, ever-so-gently, over your cheek and tucks it back behind your ear. His knuckles linger by your temple. You’ve long since stopped breathing.

“Good,” he says then. “Fear keeps you smart. Keeps you from doing something stupid.”

It’s like he knows _exactly_ what you’ve been thinking, every moment you’ve been alone together. You swallow heavily around the sudden lump in your throat, resisting the urge to grab onto something - maybe him - to keep yourself upright, centered. 

“Like what?” you rasp instead, trying to moisten your lips with the tip of your tongue, but your mouth is too dry for that. The helmet tracks the movement.

“I don’t want to give you any ideas.”

“I already have a few,” you say, breathing in a chuckle. You feel detached, as if this conversation isn’t really happening. Not in your reality.

“How old are you?”

 _That_ question stops you for a moment, and you have to think. “Oh...Galactic calendar? Twenty, at least...twenty-something, maybe. I lost track for a few years.”

“Twenty.” You hear him breathe in through the modulator, and he reaches out, a gloved finger tracking the visible indent of your collarbone from the open V of your coveralls. “You’re smart, for someone so young.”

You’re pretty sure wanting to fuck a Mandalorian isn’t that smart, but you don’t voice that thought. Not yet, anyway. 

“I’ve had to be,” you tell him, voice low, like you’re confessing a secret. “Out here, you don’t survive if you’re not smart.”

Mando nods slowly, seeming almost - understanding? Sympathetic? Maybe you’re imagining it. It’s too easy to ascribe emotions to the blankness of the Beskar. He could be making faces at you from behind that mask for all you know. He could just be toying with you to pass the time.

But something tells you that he’s not. And that scares you the most of all.

“I should go,” you say softly, and there’s a small moment of hesitation - just a second or two, but enough that you notice it - before he nods again.

You step back from him, towards the hatch, your eyes on the visor until the very last moment you turn around to swing yourself onto the ladder. You’re halfway down before his voice drifts to you.

“Goodnight, Girl.”

“Night, Mando,” you murmur, smiling to yourself as you climb down the rest of the way. 

There’s a spring in your step as you leave the Razor Crest behind, one that Peli doesn’t miss as you pass her on the way to your room.

“Remember what I told you, Girl!” she calls after you. You wave a dismissive, slightly rude offworlder gesture in her direction, but not _too_ obviously.

“ _Goodnight_ , Peli!”

“See you’re up with the suns tomorrow! We got a lot of work to do!” she yells, but you’re already gone, shutting the door behind you as you head inside.

You debate going for another shower, but Peli will tell you off for using all the water, so you go to bed instead. You say ‘bed’ - really it’s just a cot shoved into a corner in one of the storage rooms, housed between crates of spare parts. You don’t mind it. The smell of metal and lubricant has long since ceased being an unpleasant one, and it’s of particular comfort tonight

You try to sleep imagining it’s Beskar surrounding you, smooth and cool beneath your fingers. You picture a pair of gloved hands on your shoulders, your arms, your belly, and your skin warms to your own touch. Your hands aren’t as wide, your fingers not as long, but in the absence of any others, they do the job.

You come gasping into the gloom, picturing the inscrutable darkness of a T-shaped visor boring into you. And then you sleep, only half-sated, somehow more restless than ever.

You get the feeling things are only going to get worse before they get better.


	4. The Overture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soft Mando is soft and deserves to be taken care of. The Girl finally offers.

“How’s it going in there?”

You jump, whacking your head on the edge of the open panel. You’ve been working inside the Razor Crest for hours and it’s been cramped, hot and sweaty, and this is the last thing you need.

You wonder how anyone wearing so much metal can move so silently. Shouldn’t it _clink_ , or something? But no. The Mandalorian is silent. The Mandalorian is stealth personified.

The Mandalorian is _fucking annoying._

The first day it was disturbing, the second, uncomfortable, and now it’s just a pain in the ass. You’ll be trying to work and he’ll pop up out of nowhere like a children’s toy, spouting some deliciously smooth one-liner in that scratchy, filtered voice of his, and you’ll get distracted, forget what you’re doing, screw up or have to start all over again - or all three.

You’re just lucky you didn’t brain yourself on the edge of the open access hatch. You rub your forehead, glancing around to glare at him - but he’s closer than you thought. He’s braced a forearm against the bulkhead and he’s looming over your shoulder, helmet tilted as he peers over your shoulder. He’s so close you can see your reflection in that shiny metal breastplate of his, and you look…

Not as annoyed as you should be.

“Do you mind?” you gripe. “You’re in my light.”

“No I’m not. You have a flash clipped to your shirt.” He taps it, and you draw back a little, the memory of his gloved finger tracing your collarbone burning bright in your stomach. _Fuck._

You’re not sure if he’s aware of it, but he’s _constantly_ getting in your space. Touching you. Just fleetingly, under the guise of guidance, moving you out of the way or towards something he wants looked at. It’s a brush of his hand against your waist here, a touch of his fingers at the small of your back there, and it’s just enough for a repeat of that first night in your bunk.

You try not to think about that as you turn back to the mess of components and circuitry on the inside of his ship. There’s too much work to do, and while he often hovers close to you like a moth to lamplight, he doesn’t seem keen enough to get close enough to singe his wings.

You can’t tell if he’s doing it on purpose. Whether he knows he’s driving you insane - in more ways than one. It’s impossible to determine beneath the shell of his armor, the unknowable darkness of his visor. Sometimes, though, he’ll tilt his head, or the tones of his voice through the vocabulator become warm and honeyed beneath the unfriendly scratch, and you wonder...

“Y’know, the repairs would go faster if you didn’t keep interrupting me,” you point out. You don’t add the fact that secretly, deep down, you _enjoy_ the interruptions. You _like_ being driven insane by this unfathomable tower of Beskar. 

Peli tells you it’s just a crush, that you’ll get over it. But you’re long since past the age of schoolgirl infatuations, and how can you have a crush on a man whose face you’ve never seen? No, this is something different. _Gravitational pull_ , just like Peli said, although she sours when you quote her own words back to her. You don’t know what it means, but you’re fairly certain that if the Mandalorian asked you to try and fix an engine that was actively on fire, you’d do it.

You’d burn up.

“Just want to know what you’re doing,” Mando says. “I don’t like having strangers working on my ship.”

Ouch. That stings, though you’re not sure why.

“But Peli speaks highly of you,” he continues as he watches your hands work under the white light of the flash. _Wait, she does_? “And you seem…” 

He pauses for _far_ too long. 

“Competent.” 

Right.

“You Mandalorians aren’t so good at compliments, are you?” 

“When the need arises.” Oof. The way he says _need_ makes your gut churn, and not in a bad way. You try to ignore it.

You stop to survey your handiwork, trying not to look at Mando except out of the corner of your eye. He’s still there. Hovering, tall and boxing you in to the cramped space. You realize then that you can’t get to the ladder without having to squeeze past him, and it makes your pulse ramp up a little higher, as it always does when you’re in close quarters with him. 

You’re going to have to do something. You can’t work in these conditions. It’s too _distracting_.

You set down your hyperspanner at the same time as he turns and walks away. You stare at his back, appalled. He knows _exactly_ what he’s doing, the fucker. You’re suddenly full of a mindless frustration, and you call out to him - “Hey, Mando!”

He stops and turns. You think maybe under the helmet he’s raising an eyebrow, or frowning.

“What’s the deal?” you ask, putting your hands on your hips. Tilting your chin up in challenge. He shifts his weight to one foot and lets his hands hang at his sides. Posturing again. 

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t figure it out. Do you want me to fix your damn ship or not? ‘Cause you keep hovering over me like I’m doing something wrong.”

“You're not,” he assures you. 

“Then what’s the deal?” Suddenly brave, you step closer to him. And closer. Until _you’re_ in _his_ space, and you have to crane your neck up to meet his visor. This close, he’s _very_ still, and you can see the rise and fall of the chestplate with his breath, the movement of his cowl as he swallows, heavily, underneath it. _Interesting._ “‘Cause if you’d rather have Peli up here, say the world. I’ll go.”

“No,” he says. And when he lifts a gloved hand, you flinch. He reaches out and turns off the flashlight hanging from the strap of your tank top. Just a light tap, but his hand lingers, and then you feel rough leather on the outside of your arm.

“You take good care of the Crest,” he says, and your lungs seize and your blood rushes in your ears as his fingers trail down towards your elbow. “And you’re good with your hands.” His voice has dropped an octave and _fuck_ , it’s doing things to you, making your thighs want to clench and your mouth water. Does he know? _Can_ he know? You wonder what’s under that fucking armor, and your fingers suddenly itch to find out.

“Not the only thing my hands are good at,” you say, and his head tilts. Curious.

“Oh?”

That little _oh_ of inquiry - it’s more interest than he’s ever shown you. You seize on it like a flame in the darkness. 

Your voice comes out soft, suddenly touched by shyness, but you’re bold as you take that last step forward that brings you an inch from his body and _Kriff_ , he’s broad. You feel dwarfed by him, but strong when you reach out and place a finger on his breastplate. He stills at the touch. “I could show you.”

For a heartbeat, he doesn’t move, and this close you can hear the sound of his breathing through the modulator. Hear it as he hesitates. Then he reaches up, and his hand closes around yours, completely enfolding it.

“You don’t want to do that.”

Your stomach drops, and this time, not in a good way. He steps back and lets you go, and you try not to allow the disappointment to show on your face. Instead, you stoke the flame of your anger, let it burn bright and hot in your chest in the place of embarrassment, even as your face flushes. 

“Why? You think I’m offering ‘cause I’m getting paid? Because I’m not,” you tell him. “I’m an apprentice. Peli took me off the streets, gave me food, somewhere to sleep, something to do. What I do the rest of the time is _my_ business. I’m not in the habit of offering clients _extra services_ just for kicks.”

You don’t expect Mando to turn back towards you, to loom suddenly, tall and menacing, in your space. But he does, and you resist the urge to take a step back, instead blinking rapidly and drawing a quick breath into your lungs to steel you as he leans over you.

“You don’t know what you’re offering, _Girl_ ,” he tells you, and his voice is - _Gods_ \- his voice is a rough rasp that licks up your spine, makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. He’s not touching you but he might as well be - you feel warmth in your belly, between your legs, and it sets your teeth on edge. “I’m a Mandalorian.”

“And?” you prompt, surprised when you find it easy to speak. “You may not be allowed to take off the armor, but you can let me take care of _you_ like I take care of your ship.”

Mando’s breath catches. It’s subtle, but you hear the stutter of it through the vocabulator, and it makes your blood sing with triumph. It makes you brave, steadying the shake in your fingers when you reach out and lay your hands flat on his chest, the Beskar cool underneath your palms.

“Nobody’s ever…” he begins, and there’s something in his tone, something small and broken that makes your heart ache for him suddenly. “It’s always been about what _I_ can do for _them_. Never what I - Dank _farrik_ …” Mando swears suddenly, soft and vehement, and you wonder what’s going through his mind. “You don’t even know me.”

“Yeah, I do,” you tell him, lips twitching as your hands move lower, over his flak jacket, towards his belt. “You’re the Mandalorian.” You lean up and against him so that your mouth hovers near his cowled neck. “And I’m the Apprentice.”

And that’s when you realize he’s hard, and that’s not a weapon but a bulge in his pants pressing against your hip through the fabric of his pants. _Gods above,_ you think, he’s big there too, and _now_ you’re wondering if this is a good idea even as you crowd your body against his.

His hands settle on your shoulders, and you wonder if he’s about to push you away, but then they drift around your back and slink lower, fingers pressing into your spine. Gentle. And then Mando grabs your ass with both hands and pulls you roughly against him, and your breath is arrested in your lungs. 

The sound that comes out of the vocabulator you can only compare to a _growl,_ and he squeezes your ass, roughly kneading the firm flesh under his fingers. He’s so strong he’s practically lifting you from the deck, and you have to stand on tip-toe and lean wholly against his body to stay upright. 

“Mesh’la,” he murmurs, soft and reverent, at odds with the rumble in his voice, and you wonder what the word - Mando’a, probably - means. But you don’t have time to ask, because that’s when you hear it.

Peli calling for you.

“Girl!” Her voice drifts to you from outside the ship, and the Mandalorian freezes. “Girl, got those parts you wanted for the heating coils. Get down here!”

Fuck. _Fuck._ Fuck! 

Mando lets you go and the litany repeats in your head. “Fuck,” you echo it aloud. Then he grabs your jaw in one wide, covered hand.

“This isn’t over,” he tells you. You stare into the blackness of the visor and slowly, you nod. He releases you and you fall back, trying not to pant like a wanton loth cat, and you thank the Stars.

“I’ll be back,” you tell him as you head towards the ladder on shaky legs. As you turn to clamber down it, you watch Mando as he settles in the pilot’s seat, facing away from you, but you can see the tension in his posture, in the set of his shoulders as the helm turns to one to glance back at you.

“I’m counting on it,” he says. And you grin to yourself as you grab the sides of the ladder and slide down it, landing on your feet, and rush to meet your boss at the bottom of the ramp.

She notices the flush in your skin or the spring in your step straight away, and purses her lips knowingly and frowns at you as she hands over the components.

“What took you so long?” she asks suspiciously. “What were you doin’ up there?”

“Oh, you know,” you say breezily. “Just offerin’ my services.”

Peli’s pursed lips wrinkle further, if that’s even possible.

“I’m gonna go see if the baby’s awake,” she tells you. “He’s due a feed. You - you just get that ship fixed ‘fore you go tryin’ to fix anythin’ else.” Her gaze is pointed.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I mean it!” she calls over her shoulder as she walks away. “I ain’t payin’ you to have fun!”

You laugh all the way back up the ramp.


	5. The Demonstration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Girl finally makes good on her promise to take care of Mando.

“Mando?” 

The ship is somehow darker, quieter than before as you duck your head through the hatchway. The shadows stretch into deep, hidden corners, a faint beeping from somewhere niggling at the edge of your awareness - an alarm? Another system malfunctioning that you’ll have to deal with? You’re amazed you can still think about that when you feel like you can’t draw a full breath, anticipation and dread warring states in the pit of your stomach.

You don’t know what to expect. You half-expect the Mandalorian to be _gone_ , shirking his darkly-uttered promise - _This isn’t over._ For your sake, you hope it isn’t, but you think you might be a bit in over your head with this one after all.

Despite your name, you _are_ a woman, old enough to make your own decisions, but you’re a fool if you think you haven’t made some really kriffing bad ones. If this is one, you’re about to find out.

You set the heating coil elements aside on top of a crate and peer into the gloom, feeling the sweat of anxiety prickle on your forehead, the back of your neck, on your chest. You should just turn round and go, you decide, pretend the scene with Mando in the cockpit of his rusty ship never happened - he’ll probably be glad enough to escape your hormonal interests. He never seemed that interested in the first place, you tell yourself. You tell yourself it’s better to keep things _business_.

Feeling a bit better about the whole thing, you turn to leave, and you nearly collide with a wall of Beskar. Again. 

You’ll never understand how he can _do_ that - appear out of nowhere as if by magic, without disturbing so much as the air around him, soundless and spectral. You feel like a lumbering bantha next to him, all heavy boots and breaths. But right now, you feel a whole lot smaller than that.

Looking up at him, the visor gives you nothing - not even a cant or an angle to tell you what he might be thinking. His stance is neutral, tall and imposing without even trying to be. He’s directly in between you and the port hatch, and with the crates on either side of you, you’re going to have to go _through_ him to get out.

If you even want to at this point. You’re wavering again, unsure, his presence speeding the travel of your blood through your veins, making you feel almost drunk with it. With him. It’s like you forget when he’s not around, what he’s like, and then suddenly he’s _there_ and you experience it all over again for the first time. The immensity of his presence. The raw power he exudes without even trying. 

No _wonder_ you feel like this. 

“Heating coil’s’re almost worn out,” you croak, by way of explanation. “Replacin’ the element for you. Free of charge.”

“Thank you,” he rumbles. Polite. At odds with his effortlessly threatening bearing. It’s like he represents the very _potential_ for violence at any time and that, more than anything else, is terrifying.

Exciting. Enticing. You feel heavy with it, like you’ve swallowed molten durasteel, and your cunt _aches_ and all he’s done is pop up behind you and say _two words_.

He takes a step towards you, and you back up, crowded deeper into the ship. Into the darkness. You feel your shoulders butt up against the bulkhead and the curve of his pauldron obscures the light coming in from the hatch. It’s close and warm in here and not just because of the worn-out heating coils.

“Did you mean what you said? Before?” the Mandalorian asks, keeping his hands by his sides. Deliberate, cautious, dangerous. You wonder what would happen if you say _no_ , if you tell him you’ve changed your mind - would he just take what he wants, regardless? He doesn’t strike you as the type. Peli wouldn’t trust him if he was. But he’s such an unknown quantity that the _possibility_ fills you with equal parts apprehension and excitement.

You swallow past it, lift your chin. And you say, “Yes.”

He’s on you so quickly you don’t even register the movement - stepping into you, he grabs your hip in one hand and yanks you against him, and you feel him then, hard and straining against your stomach. _Oh, Force_ , you think, Peli’s stolen prayer repeating in your head as silver eclipses your vision and arousal floods your system like never before.

“ _Show me_ ,” the Mandalorian demands with a growl, and you forget how to think for a moment.

“But -” You’re not even sure why you’re protesting, but you do, some shred of logic remaining in your system, fighting against want. “The hatch - Peli might see, or the droids - “

Mando chuckles. He fucking _chuckles_ , the sound a warm buzz through the vocabulator that makes your heart skip a beat. “You didn’t care about that up in the cockpit.”

 _Shit_ , you think. _The viewports. Of course._ You can’t refute his reasoning, even as you fight to keep some of your own. It’s a losing battle, eroded by the awareness of his hand, his hips, the outline of his length jabbing insistently into your abdomen. You have no idea where defeat will land you, but you can't wait to find out.

 _Fuck it_ , you decide. You’ll scrap any droid that comes in here and Peli - well, Peli knows better, by this point.

You don’t miss the way Mando’s breath stutters in his helmet as you lower yourself onto your knees on the deck. He lets you go and suddenly it’s like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands - they hover around your shoulders, your head, but don’t touch. 

Now, eye-to-crotch, you get a better idea of what you’re dealing with and _Gods above_ , you were right when you estimated his size. He’s probably not even fully erect yet and the line of him spans such a space in his pants you’re impressed by the strength of the fabric keeping him contained. You glance up as you reach for his belt, and the chin of his helm is pressed to his chest as he looks down at you, and you can see his chest heaving now - he’s not so unaffected as he pretends, and that fills you with a smug pride that you, and you alone, have achieved that. 

“You don’t have to-” Mando says then, and the sudden softness in his hard, scratchy voice threatens to be devastating. “I didn’t mean-”

“You said to show you,” you counter, and the belt opens and sags around his hips, holster and armor and explosive charges and all. “Can’t think of a better way to do that. Can you?” He doesn’t answer. Instead he lets you pull it all from his body, and you set his gear aside on the crate with the elements. Carefully. Almost reverently. Mando seems to appreciate the gesture, staying still as you return to his feet.

It’s a struggle, with your hands threatening to shake and the strength gone from your fingers, but you approach it with the precision of a mechanical problem as you pop the button and lower the zip on his trousers. And when you reach in and free his cock from his undergarments, Mando freezes, his fists clenching at his sides.

You have to take a moment, too, if only to appreciate what’s in your hand. Heavy and thick, you can _feel_ the pulsing of his veins beneath the tanned skin, and the head is flushed dark with blood and already glistening at the slitted tip. Your mouth fills with saliva at the sight. It’s the most beautiful cock you’ve ever seen.

Human, too. That’s a bit of a relief.

You don’t go in for the kill straight away. Instead you lean forward just a little, letting the velvety length drag across your cheek, nuzzling the tip of your nose against the base and the thatch of wiry, light brown curls there. The masculine scent of him fills your senses, musky and dark, but not overly strong - which you can appreciate. 

_Mando_ seems to be appreciating this even more, for you hear the smallest of sounds escape the modulator - a tiny, broken murmur that goes straight to the growing ache between your legs. With the lack of visual cues your body hones in on the sound, and encouraged, you pull back, because you’re already dying to get him in your mouth.

Evidently, he feels the same way, for as soon as you part your lips and let your breath play warm over the tip, he reaches out and fists a hand in your hair with a sudden roughness that makes your eyes water. But then he loosens his grip with a stuttered sigh, and you reward him by moving forward, opening your mouth and extending your tongue to swipe the moisture from the head of his cock.

Mando _groans_ , a sound that reaches all the way through you and tugs at the tingling warmth already forming in your clit. Your coveralls feel too restrictive, and you wish you’d thought to change before returning to the Crest, but it’s too late now. And you don’t want to stop for _anything_.

He’s thick, and long, and you’re not sure how much of him you’ll be able to fit in your mouth but Maker, that doesn’t mean you aren’t going to _try_. You tease him a little longer first though, with your lips and the tip of your tongue drawing expanding circles over the head of his cock, and it’s only when he starts to rock his hips and tighten his hand in your hair that you open your mouth wider and slide him in.

“Ah, fff- _fuck_ ,” you hear from above you, and when you glance up past the shining plates of Beskar, you see his helm rock back as if struck. Smug triumph sings in your veins, but not for long, for the Mandalorian thrusts forward into the waiting heat of your mouth and you choke a little as his dick impacts the back of your throat. You take it, though, widening your jaw and flattening your tongue against the underside of his shaft, your nose pressed tight against the back of your hand as you grip what you can’t fit in your mouth in your fist.

You’ve always wondered why the girls - ahem, _women_ \- in the cantina and on the street complained about doing this kind of thing. There’s nothing more powerful than having a man helpless with his cock down your throat, although the Mandalorian is doing a good job trying _not_ to appear helpless.

You let him fuck your mouth for a bit, let him think he’s earned it. You don’t mind - you hold your breath, inhale and exhale through your nose when he pulls back, and absorb yourself with learning each vein and ridge of his cock with your tongue, committing it to a memory that’ll keep you warm in your cot for nights to come. Soon your throat gets a little sore from the constant impact, and you slow him with a soft sound and a hand on his thigh, your fingers curling around the edge of the Beskar guard. Maybe a little surprisingly, Mando takes the hint, panting softly through the modulator as his thrusts slow, and he lets you take back control of the movement of your head.

As a reward, you bob over him, hollowing your cheeks and sucking him down in a move that has him gasping, and pulling back to twirl your tongue around the plush head of his length. He _throbs_ in your mouth, and you wonder how pent up he’s been, how frustrated - from the feel of things, from the salty-sweet taste of precome flooding your senses, he _has_ to have been wanting this as much as you have. If not more.

The knowledge fills you with a sense of power that makes you brave, and you begin to work him with your hand too, drawing him tight through the ring made by your fingers as you pull back, pumping him hard on the downward plunge. You feel his grip flex in your hair and the burn of the tugging at your scalp makes your cunt clench. You let go of his thighguard to snatch at the zipper of your coveralls, getting it down to your navel, working your fingers inside the suit and finally to your underwear - and _Kriffing hell_ , you can’t believe how soaking wet you are just from getting _him_ off. If he ever does anything to you, you’re going to _explode_.

“Such a fuh - fucking _clever_ mouth,” Mando says then, his voice low and scratchy through the vocabulator, broken by a hiccup of breath that makes your hair stand on end. “Should’ve known you’d be - sss- so _good_ -”

His praise does something to you, something that amplifies the touch of your fingers on your clit, and you think you could come just from this and the sound of his voice alone. You make a garbled noise of approval around his cock and Mando starts moving his hips again. Your lips hurt, stretched so tightly around the thick of him, and your throat burns; tears have formed at the corner of your eyes and your whole chin is soaked with your spit but you’ve never felt better in your _life_.

And then the helmet tilts above you, the visor fixed on the movement at his feet. Mando stops, cock pulsing against your tongue, as he gasps - “Shit - are- are you _touching_ yourself?” and you have _just_ enough time for one more plunge of your mouth before he’s coming down your throat, flooding your tongue with the heady, salty taste of his load.

His cock swells further, if that’s even possible, and he shoves himself all the way to the back of your mouth, holding himself there with his grip on your hair as he gasps and his cock jerks and twitches, seemingly endlessly, expelling rope after rope of come against your tongue. You swallow, because it’s either that or _drown_ , he comes so much. 

Eventually it stops, the throbbing of his dick fading to the occasional twitch and Mando stills, the ragged sound of his panting breath filling the space. Your knees are sore and your fingers are cramping, clamped between your thighs, and you _hurt_ with how fucking worked up you are. Kriff, he was so much louder than you expected him to be, so much more vocal and expressive than the blank stare of that black visor could ever lead you to believe, and that _alone_ almost had you coming against your own hand. Not to mention you - just _you_ \- actually managing to make him _come_ so hard.

Slowly, you let his length ease free from your mouth. His hand finally releases the fistful of your hair, and you’re surprised when he strokes the back of your head almost _tenderly_ , at complete odds to the vicious face-fucking he just gave you. He is a Mandalorian of many layers, it seems.

“Sorry,” you croak, your voice more than a little hoarse, pulling your hand from your suit despite your aching cunt and the warmth still spooling in your tummy. “Couldn’t...help myself.” Finally, you let go of his softening cock, wiping spit and come from the corners of your mouth as you ease back onto your haunches. When you look up to meet the visor, it’s staring down at you with an unfathomable expression - of course - but his chest is still heaving like he’s been running and his fists are clenched at his sides.

“You,” Mando begins, and you think he sounds angry - furious, in fact. When he reaches down and grabs your wrist, hauling you to your feet, your arousal mixes with a cold shot of fear that does _nothing_ to tamp it down like it should. But then the Mandalorian is spinning around and shoving you face-first against the bulkhead. “You’re - dank _farrik_ -”

“I’m sorry,” you gasp out, but then he’s yanking your suit down your arms, with such force that he nearly rips it by the time he gets it over your hips. “You - _oh_ \- what are you doing?”

“Quiet,” he snarls, and your floor muscles flutter in direct response to the dropped octave in his voice. You shudder as you feel his gloved hands grope you - and he’s not shy. They’re all over your body, kneading at your stomach, your hips, your breasts, pulling and twisting without preamble at the pebbled hardness of your nipples. You gasp and tremble under the assault, letting out a moan, and you think that Peli could walk up that fucking ramp right now and you wouldn’t care, you’re already too far gone.

You were right. He hasn’t even touched your pussy yet and you’re about ready to explode.

You feel rough leather at your sore lips, and you blink in confusion for a moment before you realize it’s his gloved fingers. Mando shoves them into your mouth unceremoniously, butting up against your teeth until you open for him. “Bite,” he says in that same dark growl, and you obey unconsciously, clamping down on the seam above his middle finger. Then he tugs his hand free in one swift movement and stuffs the leather deeper between your lips, gagging you. All you can taste is his come and the leather but you don’t spit it out because you’re so fucking turned on by it and you don’t have time to reflect on that before you feel a strong, broad, _naked_ hand trailing down your stomach and into your underwear.

Two callused fingertips press against your clitoris, so much rougher than your own, but it’s the _right_ kind of rough, the best kind, the kind that makes you moan and drool around the glove in your mouth. Your legs shake beneath you, and Mando loops his other arm around your waist, holding you up between him and the bulkhead. 

He rubs short, deep circles into the swollen bundle of nerves, and if you weren’t wet before you’re _soaking_ now, the crotch of your underwear sticking to your folds uncomfortably - right up until his fingers leave your clit and trail lower, a long middle digit working between them. You gargle out a sharp cry into the glove as he slides a single finger all the way into you with barely any effort, the passage eased by your arousal. So much longer and thicker than your own digits, you think you’ll be able to come with just one instead of your usual three, and when he finds that spot inside you that has you seeing stars and curls against it, you’re sure of it. 

You feel the weight of his helm press into the back of your shoulder as he echoes your groan. “So tight,” he rumbles, his finger prodding at your walls, exploring, relentless. “So _wet_. Is this all for me?” You nod wordlessly, your eyes rolling back into your head as his thumb finds your clitoris again, and he begins to work his finger in and out of you with a deliciously firm, sliding motion.

“That’s it,” he whispers, and his encouragement coils heat in your stomach. “Good girl.” From anyone else, it’d be patronizing, but from _Mando_ \- _fuck -_

You whine against the leather stuffed between your lips, grabbing at his wrist with both hands, terrified his might stop. You’re so close that your orgasm is no longer just wishful thinking - it feels like an inevitability, a surety, like the laws of aerodynamics or gravity. It’s so much _better_ than it was in your bunk, alone; the weight of the Mandalorian at your back makes you ache as he relentlessly plucks at the taut string of your pleasure, drawing it into a single sharp, singing chord.

It rushes through you before you know what’s happening - before you can brace yourself against the sudden blazing surge of heat that has your back arching, your toes curling in your boots and your pussy clutching around the intrusion. You come sobbing through the leather in your mouth, your knees buckling with the strength of it, the feeling between your legs momentarily shorting out all other sensation. Mando holds you up, his finger pumping steadily through your clutching insides, his thumb a constant, devastating pressure on your throbbing clit. 

It is ruinous, and it seems to go on forever. Just when you think you can’t stand it anymore, his hand slows and stops, and you go limp and gasping, leaning back against the body of the Beskar bounty hunter behind you. 

You’re not sure how long you stand there, limp and listing. Your heartbeat takes forever to slow, and your skin feels flushed and too-tight everywhere. You reach up and slowly ease the crumpled leather of Mando’s glove from your mouth, wincing as you flex your aching jaw. Now that awareness has returned, you’re far _too_ aware of his helm pressed to your cheek, of his hand still in between your legs, of his arms caging you in against the bulkhead. He does not seem overeager to let you go, and that suits you fine. You’re not sure you’ll be able to walk just yet anyway.

“Girl?” His voice is a buzz from the modulator in your ear.

“Hmm?” you manage, feeling dumb and heavy and slow, and better than you have been in a long, long time.

“Just checking you’re alive.” He withdraws his hand from your pants and you lament its loss with a soft sigh. He squeezes your hip once before he lets you go entirely, and you brace a hand on the bulkhead in front of you as he steps back. You hear his clothing rustle as he fixes himself up. Then, surprisingly, he lifts your coveralls up, eases them up your arms and zips it up, smoothing the rough fabric over your sides and belly. Almost proprietarily.

“‘Course I’m alive. Don’t flatter yourself _too_ much,” you say to him as you turn, leaning back against the cool metal of the ship’s interior. The Mandalorian looks...like the Mandalorian, all silvery Beskar plates and poise, although you don’t miss the way his chest moves as he breathes, still a little hard, or the bared flesh of his hand as your eyes track downward.

Long, golden fingers. Still shiny with your slick. He notices you looking, and he brings his hand up - you can’t figure out what for until he holds his fingers to your lips.

You part them and he slides two inside, and you make a soft noise around them as you tongue your taste from his skin.

He withdraws them and wipes your saliva off on your cheek. “Good girl,” he says again, and again you shiver. _Force_. You don’t know why you like hearing him say that, and you hope to all the unknown gods, above and below, that he hasn’t noticed. But you _think_ you catch a hint of amusement in his voice when he says, “Glove.”

Dazedly, you press it back into his hand, and you don’t miss the way he flinches as your fingertips brush his palm, his bare skin. You don’t point it out, though. That would be crossing a line.

As if you haven’t crossed enough lines with the taste of his come still lingering on your tongue.

You pick up his belt slowly and the visor tracks you as you gesture with it towards his waist. He looks at you for a moment, and then he nods. You step close, and loop it around his hips, the shiny silver dome of his pauldron filling your vision as you click the fastenings shut and make sure his holster and armor sits right against him. It feels strangely...intimate, almost like a hug, although you can’t imagine _actually_ hugging him. 

“Thank you,” he says softly, and you nod as you step back. “You did...take good care of me.”

Oh, he has to stop _doing_ that. You weren’t made for kind words and you don’t know how to deal with them. His indifference was one thing, but this? This is a whole other game of Sabacc and you’re pretty sure you’re losing.

You try, though, clearing your throat and offering a wan smile as you cant your head back to look up at him. “Any time,” you say in an attempt at slyness. Mando lifts his covered hand and thumbs your chin, and your smugness dissolves instantly.

“We’ll see,” he says, and you bite the inside of your cheek. 

“I guess I better...better get back to the repairs,” you manage after a moment, after he lowers his hand, forging on despite the waver in your voice. To your surprise, Mando shakes his head.

“Go wash up. I’ll install the new heating coils. You can check the system when you get back.”

There it is again - the kindness you don’t expect, nor deserve. You swallow past the lump in your sore throat, eye his visor for a moment, then shrug.

“Okay.”

Your steps are a little wobbly, but you manage as you skirt around him and head towards the open hatch. It seems darker out, and you wonder how long you were - occupied. You glance over your shoulder on the way down, but the Mandalorian is already gone, like nothing ever happened at all.

You could almost believe it, but for your stinging throat and the moisture sticking your underwear to your skin under your coveralls.

The DUM-droids are working on the outside of the ship, making a mess, and you give one an idle kick as you pass. It chatters angrily at you and you roll your eyes as you drift towards the interior. Peli is nowhere to be seen, thank the Force.

But she _does_ make herself heard as you try to creep past the control room.

“Have fun in there?” Your chin sinks to your chest and you turn slowly, bracing a hand on the doorframe. Peli sits leaning back in her chair with a snoozing Grogu on her lap and a look like she knows _exactly_ what you’ve been up to.

“What?”

“I _said_ , you have fun in there? Gettin’ those coils installed?”

“Oh, right…” you mutter, your face burning. “Sure. It, uh, got a bit hot and sweaty though, so I’m just gonna hit the sani’ real quick.”

“Hot and sweaty, huh,” says Peli, raising her eyebrows. “Right.”

“I won’t be long,” you assure her. “I’ll get straight back to work.”

“I’m sure you will. Be careful, Girl.”

“In the shower?” you question, bristling a little bit at the condescension. Peli really has to stop telling you that. It doesn’t make you want to be careful at _all_. “Okay, sure.”

“We’re gonna have a talk later, you’n I,” your boss adds as you turn away, and you feel the force of her gaze boring in between your shoulderblades. “Be done after sundown.”

You sigh. A Talk. That’s _exactly_ what you need, you think to yourself. But you only nod once before moving off towards the refresher. 

Peli’s a buzzkill, but it doesn’t erase the memory of the Mandalorian’s hands on you as you stand under the hot spray. You follow the remembered path of his touch with your own, and sigh as you recall that all-too-brief brush of his bare fingers against yours.

You’re in trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this was worth the wait???


End file.
